THE HAMLET

The hamlet looked quiet in the dusk. The mountain peaks were still lit by the sun, but here, in the ravine, the night was flooding in. Moisture quickly covered the desolate cobblestones, and due to the rapid drop in temperature, the stones were getting slippery. Not that there was anyone to slip on them. Nobody had set foot here for years, the houses were crumbling with the passage of time, and the water in the village well reflected only the moon.

Neither lost tourists nor mountaineers had stopped here for many years. All day long the hamlet grew bored, sensing how time was gnawing away at it; only very occasionally would a tree branch knock down a roof-tile, or a rotten fence creak and bend down under its own weight. Yesterday it had been startled by a terrible crash – the beams of a cottage had given way and the whole roof had fallen, burying all the ancient belongings of the house beneath it. Nothing could be done. This work needed a human hand. The hamlet huddled in the dark and started dreaming of the old days.

In its dream it’s Sunday, a holy day, the small church is overcrowded and the candles gleam with magical flames. The priest raises the golden cross high above his head and everybody goes quiet. The icons shimmer in the glow of the candles. The hamlet is alive and full of joy, but remains silent, as the entire congregation does. It hovers about inside the temple and rejoices in its own inhabitants. They are all here. To the last human being.

Steps broke its slumber.

The hamlet stiffened almost tangibly. A stranger was walking on the cobblestones, his steps echoing in the dark. He stopped, took out a match and held the flame up to his face. Thin, gaunt, unshaven. He was wearing a backpack with shabby shoulder-straps, from which a pickaxe and a spade were sticking out. He lit a cigarette and blew out the match, the glow of the cigarette floating down towards the hamlet like a light dancing in a graveyard.

He slipped a few times and cursed quietly.

Stopping by the first house, he strained to hear any sound, then he took out a head torch. It was deadly silent. It was supposed to be a deserted hamlet. No barking dogs, no slamming doors, no light squeezing through the blinds.  

He fixed the torch onto his head in order to see where he was walking and not stumble. He took out a crumpled piece of paper with a hand-drawn ‘map’ and a cross on it. That’s where he would find the church. He could only hope that no one had got there before him.

He found his bearings quickly. He is right here, right now: one more block to go, then across the little bridge, and then straight to the square. Then the tiny church will be just a hundred steps away.

He adjusted his backpack and went on. The hamlet watched him in silence.

It followed him to the bridge, over its squeaking planks, it followed him like a shadow till he reached the square. It felt nice to hear human steps again. The hamlet was expecting the guest to walk into one of the houses, to stay overnight, but he headed on straight towards the church. He opened the door and its long screech might have woken the whole village, but there was no one sleeping here. The man looked around and stood there unmoving for a long time just to make sure there was really no one there. It was completely dark and silent around him. High above, the stars were shining palely, and the moon was hiding behind a cloud. The hamlet made no sound.

He walked into the church and pointed the light at the walls. The icons popped up out of the darkness one by one, along the path of the torch light. There were a great many of them. All over the walls. Excellently preserved. 

It took him some time to bring his excitement under control. The light was hopping from the face of one saint to that of another; maybe he needed to come here again; there were so many.

The door squeaked.

He turned sharply, but, of course, there was no one there. It had been a gust of wind, there was nothing to worry about.

The hamlet was watching what the man was doing with amazement. At first it couldn’t make out what he was about to do with the sack at all and why he was shoving the icons into it. Then the meaning of the whole thing dawned on the hamlet and it stiffened. If there was anything left of the hamlet’s inhabitants, it was here, in the church. It must not let this man do this. It had to react somehow. Stop him.

Memories of the good old times danced in its consciousness, the time when it was crowded with men, women, children… then came the steady, irreversible depopulation, then the sinking into the weeds of oblivion, then the numerous years spent in solitary waiting.

Why should such a man come here in the first place… And what could it do? The hamlet, whose fences were falling apart, whose facades were peeling off like a lizard’s skin, whose roofs were falling down, and only a human hand could reverse this ordeal…

 The icons clanked inside the sack when he carried them to the door of the church. He thought he felt someone’s presence, but he put this down to his nerves and the total silence reigning inside the temple.

Then, suddenly, his heart tightened as if something invisible had grasped it and squeezed it. He dropped the sack and fell to the floor.

 The hamlet slowly loosened its grip.

 This was the first time it had done such a thing.

Translated by Julia Nefedova / Edited by Tom Phillips

The Bulgarian text first appeared in ‘Wine for the Dead’ (Gaiana, 2013)